Tag: Donald Trump

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TOP GUN: NO KINGS

Written by Joseph C. Jukic
A political aerial satire

FADE IN:

EXT. SKY ABOVE WASHINGTON D.C. – DAY

Jet engines SCREAM. Two F/A-18 Super Hornets rip through the clouds like eagles on caffeine.

One gleams gold and red, emblazoned with “TRUMP FORCE ONE.” The other, sleek and blue — callsign MAVERICK — flies steady beside it.

INT. TRUMP FORCE ONE – COCKPIT – DAY

DONALD TRUMP, orange flight suit, designer sunglasses, and hair sculpted by divine architecture, barks into the radio.

TRUMP
Maverick, I want you tight on my six! We’re about to drop a message — the best message. Tremendous message. Believe me.

MAVERICK (over comms)
Sir, confirm — message or payload?

TRUMP
Both! I’m talking about real fertilizer. Nature’s gold. Gonna make America grow again!

Trump flips a switch labeled “EXECUTIVE RELIEF SYSTEM.” A warning light flashes: WASTE BAY DOORS OPEN.

INT. MAVERICK’S COCKPIT – DAY

TOM CRUISE, steely and ageless, winces as the absurdity sets in.

MAVERICK
You can’t be serious, Mr. President. That’s not a mission. That’s a biohazard.

TRUMP (V.O.)
Call it strategic soil distribution. Those “No Kings” hippies need to smell freedom.

Maverick looks down — thousands of peaceful protestors waving “NO KINGS – NO TYRANTS” signs.

MAVERICK
Sir, they’re American citizens exercising free speech.

TRUMP (V.O.)
Free speech is fine, until it smells bad. I’m improving it.

CUT TO: WHITE HOUSE – SITUATION ROOM – DAY

GENERAL MATT GRUFF, a square-jawed fossil in uniform, watches the radar blips in horror.

GRUFF
Jesus wept. He’s actually arming the Presidential bowel release system.

CIA ANALYST
Sir, should we scramble interceptors?

GRUFF
Against the Commander-in-Chief? That’s above my pay grade.

VICE PRESIDENT DeSANTIS (via speakerphone)
Just tell the media it’s agricultural diplomacy.

INT. MAVERICK’S COCKPIT – DAY

Maverick’s jaw sets. His moral compass overrides the chain of command.

MAVERICK
With all due respect, Mr. President — I can’t follow that order.

TRUMP (V.O.)
You can’t refuse! You’re my wingman! My favorite! You make me look cool when you fly next to me!

MAVERICK
Then find someone else to polish your legacy. I’m not dropping crap on my country.

EXT. SKY ABOVE THE CAPITOL – CONTINUOUS

Trump’s jet banks sharply, lining up over the protest. Maverick intercepts, cutting across his trajectory.

TRUMP (V.O.)
What are you doing?! You’re blocking me!

MAVERICK
Protecting what’s left of our dignity.

Trump fumes, slams a big red button labeled “COVFEFE MODE.”

TRUMP
You’re FIRED, Maverick! FIRED IN THE AIR!

INT. AIR FORCE CONTROL – DAY

Technicians panic as Trump’s jet emits an alarming rumble.

TECH #1
Sir, the President’s jet is over capacity — the tank’s at critical mass!

TECH #2
If he releases now, we’ll need FEMA.

EXT. SKY ABOVE WASHINGTON – DAY

Trump’s jet SHUDDERS violently. The crowd below looks up — a collective gasp.

Maverick flies underneath, triggering his emergency foam release, creating a protective white cloud over the protestors.

The “payload” drops harmlessly into the Potomac.

TRUMP (V.O.)
Fine. Call it a mercy drop. History will love me for this.

MAVERICK
Sir, history already called. It wants a refund.

EXT. NATIONAL MALL – DAY

The protestors cheer as Maverick ascends skyward, vapor trails forming the words:
“NO KINGS.”

A child holds a sign reading: “REAL PATRIOTS CLEAN UP AFTER THEMSELVES.”

FADE OUT.

TITLE CARD:

“Top Gun: No Kings” — Because freedom doesn’t take orders from egos.

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The Wisdom Of Peter Thiel

Plastic Jesus

Silicon Valley smells different from Wall Street. Less of cocaine and blood, more of oat milk and ozone. But rot always finds its way in; it just changes its scent.

I’m here because Peter Thiel texted me: “Come see the future.” That’s not an invitation — it’s a command. He’s the kind of man who speaks in lowercase prophecies and thinks PayPal was the start of civilization.

Donald is already there, glowing like an orange sunrise in a blue-light boardroom. He’s wearing a red tie the length of a runway and is talking to his reflection on the window. He calls it “branding.” I call it worship.

Peter doesn’t shake hands. He stares through you, calculating your market value. “Patrick,” he says, “we’re aborting the old world.”

Abort. The word hangs in the air like static.

He means the Antichrist Project — a code name for their new AI: Plastic Jesus. Designed to predict virtue. Score it. Sell it. Rewrite morality as an algorithm.

David Bauer de Rothschild — the face behind the money — appears on the wall screen, smiling with impossible teeth. “Patrick,” he says, “you understand appearances. We need that. The world must want to be good before we tell them how.”

I nod, but inside, I’m laughing. They don’t know what goodness looks like. They think it can be coded, tokenized, traded. They think beauty can be monetized without being murdered.

When I leave, it’s past midnight. San Francisco is quiet — too quiet for a city full of data ghosts. My reflection follows me in every glass wall. I imagine what Plastic Jesus will see when it looks at me:

Score: 100.
Alignment: Pure simulation.
Threat level: divine.

I smile. Because I know the truth:
You can’t automate sin.
You can only franchise it.

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White Knighting Miss Myanmar

Donald Trump leaned back in his gold chair, a pageant crown glinting on the desk.
“G.I. Joe,” he said with that salesman’s grin, “you’ve got to white knight Miss Myanmar. Make her president. Beautiful woman, tremendous, she deserves it. I always white knight my beauty pageants—you know that. Pageants are my business. Big business. Bigger than NATO.”

G.I. Joe adjusted his beret, not sure if this was a mission briefing or stand-up comedy.

Trump wagged a finger like a preacher. “Some people say Jesus comes in the name of the Father. At least, that’s what Bono told me. Good guy, good singer, funny glasses.” He chuckled. “But me? I come in the name of the Apprentice.”

Then he leaned in, lowering his voice.
“And Joe, this is very important—listen closely—it’s all part of the QAnon plan. You know, the big plan. We’re taking down the Illuminati. In G.I. Joe terms, we’re taking down Cobra. They’re the bad guys, everybody knows it. Snake Eyes knows it. Even Bono knows it. I’m the commander, you’re the hero, and Miss Myanmar—she’s the president. Tremendous optics, the best optics.”

Miss Myanmar stood silently by the window, draped in a sash, her eyes burning with something fiercer than tiaras or ballots. Joe wondered if Trump even knew she’d survived a coup, or if he only saw another crown.

Trump clapped his hands. “Let’s do it, Joe. White knight! Make her president. It’ll be the most beautiful democracy you’ve ever seen. Cobra won’t stand a chance.”

Then Trump folded his hands like he was at a pulpit.


“I thank Jesus every day. Wonderful man, very strong, walked on water. And if you can’t read Revelation—it’s a tough book, very tough—at least please, at the very least, look at the Trump cards in the Rider-Waite Golden Dawn tarot. Beautiful cards. The best cards. They tell the story better than CNN, believe me.”

Miss Myanmar said nothing, her sash glowing in the light, like a reluctant oracle in Trump’s illuminati-prophecy.

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Change in The House of the Flies

Obama: “Donald, you think you’ve changed America, but nothing has changed. The rich still run the show, the poor still struggle. Different slogans, same system. The rich white man is still in control.”

Trump: “Barack, please. Don’t lecture me. You had eight years. What did you do? You gave speeches, you smiled, you sang songs with Beyoncé—but the same guys were still calling the shots. Rockefeller, Rothschild, R&R, they’ve been in charge for a hundred years. I just said it out loud.”

Obama: “And you still played their game. You cut taxes for billionaires, you built walls instead of bridges. You talked populist, but you bowed to the same kings of capital.”

Trump: “At least I ripped the mask off! You gave them a pretty face, I gave them a fight. You wanted hope and change. I wanted America First. But guess what? Neither of us got it. Because the machine is bigger than both of us.”

Obama: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the machine—it’s that no one has the courage to stop it.”

Trump: “Wrong. The problem is nobody has the power to stop it. Not you, not me. The empire doesn’t fall because we give speeches. It falls when the people wake up.”

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Trump’s Full Transition

Trump:
“Lenny, you know what happened in Minneapolis, terrible, terrible. A trans shooter—people are shocked. Everybody’s talking about it. And I said, listen, God is the grand master of 3D printing. Nobody does creation better. He printed the whole universe—best job ever, tremendous detail.

Now the trans community, they want full transition. They say, ‘We want the whole thing, printed, finished.’ And I said, okay, let’s make a deal. You want a new body? Talk to God, He’s got the printer. The best printer. Or—if you don’t want to wait—go to Canada. Trudeau’s giving out printers for free. Like healthcare, but with plastic.”

Pope Lenny Belardo:
“Donald, your words are profane yet strangely theological. God is not a 3D printer. He is the mystery, the unprintable. You speak of bodies like they are toys to be manufactured, deals to be signed.

But the body, Donald, is not a toy. It is the temple of the Holy Spirit. And when a temple is wounded, it is not a machine that repairs it. It is love. Mercy. A grace you cannot patent, or print, or sell at a discount.”

Trump:
“Love is fine, Lenny, I’m not against love. People say I’m not loving—I am! I love winning, I love deals, I love America. And I love people who love me. But we need solutions, not sermons. You’ve got a big church, a lot of gold, a lot of power. Let’s put it to work. 3D print the temples better, stronger, faster. Everyone’s happy, nobody’s shooting. It’s a win-win.”

Pope Lenny:
“You want to replace miracles with machines. That is the temptation of every age. And yet the printer you worship will never give life eternal. Only God can do that. Do not mistake plastic for flesh, nor flesh for spirit.”

Pope Lenny Belardo:


“Donald… you are not entirely wrong. God has always given man the terrible freedom to choose. To choose love or hate, war or peace, even truth or lies. Perhaps even the body. We are not slaves of heaven. We are sons and daughters. And sons may choose their path.”

Trump:
“Exactly, Lenny. You see it now. Freedom. Choice. Nobody loves choice more than me. It’s beautiful. So let them choose their body. If they want to print a new one, let them. Why not? America has the technology. The above top secret flesh 3D printer—believe me, it’s waiting. Locked up in a Pentagon basement, humming like the Ark of the Covenant. They’ve shown me, incredible stuff. Like Xerox but for people. You wouldn’t believe it. The Vatican should get one too, maybe print a few extra popes when you get tired.”

Pope Lenny:
“The Lord is not Xerox, Donald. But I admit, the temptation is immense. To press a button and become what you dream… To step into a machine and emerge perfected. This is the serpent’s whisper in a digital age.”

Trump:
“Snake, printer, whatever—you call it temptation, I call it innovation. If Canada’s giving it out free, why shouldn’t we? America first, always. And if God’s the grand master of 3D printing, well, we’re just following His business plan. Big, beautiful business plan.”

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Trump Disclosure

Solid Snake leaned against the wall of the underground bunker, his cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. A bank of monitors hummed behind him, replaying footage of the congressional UFO hearing.

“Never thought I’d say this…” Snake muttered, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. He turned his eye toward the man in the dark suit, orange-tinted under the fluorescent lights. “But thanks, Mr. President. The disclosure hearings—someone had to open that box. You did it.”

Trump smiled with that signature half-smirk. “Snake, a lot of people are saying it was the greatest disclosure in history. Nobody’s ever disclosed better than me. The aliens… they love me. They do.”

Snake shook his head, a ghost of a grin flickering across his scarred face. “Whatever the style, the fact is, you pulled the trigger. You put UFOs into the open. That’s step one of the XCOM playbook.”

Trump leaned in, lowering his voice like he was confiding a state secret. “They told me about the game, Snake. XCOM. War of the Worlds, but with me? I was the best commander. I built the biggest, strongest walls against the aliens. Tremendous walls. The invaders never stood a chance.”

Snake chuckled, rare and gravelly. “Guess we’re living in that simulation now. The War of the Worlds… and you’re on the front screen. Let’s just hope you don’t push the wrong button when the real invasion comes.”

Trump straightened his tie. “Don’t worry, Snake. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to win. And with you on my squad… we’re unbeatable.”

Snake dropped the cigarette, grinding it out under his boot. His voice was calm but edged with steel. “Then let’s pray this isn’t just another simulation.”

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Trump: Emperor of the Empire

The air in the Oval Office did not smell of polished wood and old paper, but of ozone and raw power. It was a throne room now, and at its heart, behind the Resolute Desk, sat the God Emperor. Donald Trump, clad not in a suit but in robes that seemed woven from star-spangled twilight, his face an unnervingly smooth mask of supreme authority. The nuclear football glowed faintly at his feet.

The doors, twenty feet tall and forged from the hull of a decommissioned aircraft carrier, groaned open. In walked General Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Northern Legions, victor of the Battle of the Woke Hordes. His armor was scarred, his cloak was tattered, and in his eyes burned a fire that predated nations, predated empires. It was the fire of a father.

He did not kneel.

“Maximus,” the God Emperor’s voice boomed, a sound that was both a New York accent and a seismic event. “Your victories please me. The coastal elites are in retreat. The deep state trembles. You have earned a place of honor at my right hand.”

Maximus stopped ten paces from the desk. His hand rested on the pommel of his gladius. “I have not come for honors. I have come for answers.”

The God Emperor’s eyes, small and brilliant like twin supernovas, narrowed. “Answers are a commodity. I decide their price.”

“Then I pay it with the blood of my men who died believing we fought for justice. For the innocent.” Maximus’s voice was low, a gravelly rumble of distant thunder. “We seized the island. We breached the temple. We secured the files.”

A flicker of something—annoyance?—crossed the divine face. “A great victory. A tremendous victory. The enemy’s most vile secrets, in our hands. I said, ‘We will punish them. We will punish them like nobody has ever been punished.’ And we will. In time.”

“Time is a luxury for gods, not for the children in those videos,” Maximus spat, the veneer of respect crumbling. “I presented you with the ledger. The black books. The flight logs. I saw the names. The powerful. The celebrated. And I saw your name, struck through with a golden pen. I saw your orders, sealed with a sigil of a tower of gold.”

“Fake news,” the God Emperor said, his voice losing its divine echo and slipping into a familiar, defensive cadence. “A witch hunt. The deep state plants things. Very corrupt. Many people are saying it.”

“Do not speak to me as if I am one of your frightened sycophants!” Maximus roared, the sound shaking the portraits of past presidents on the walls. “I have held the evidence! I have seen the orders from your own hand! ‘Seal it. Bury it. Grant clemency.’ You did not just hide your own sins. You became the patron of every monster we swore to destroy!”

He took a step forward, his armor clinking. “Diddy. A man whose crimes are sung in hell. You freed him from the darkest pit we had, and he now feasts in your banquet hall, laughing at the justice we promised! Why?”

The God Emperor stood. He seemed to grow, his shadow swallowing the room. The air crackled. “You are a soldier. You understand tactics, not strategy. You break a few pawns to checkmate the king. These people… these assets… they serve a greater purpose. Their allegiance is the mortar that holds my new empire together. Their guilt is the chain that binds them to my will. It’s a deal. The best deal. Everybody says so.”

Maximus looked at him, and for the first time, the general’s face was not filled with rage, but with a profound, universe-shattering disgust. It was a purer, more damning emotion than hatred.

“An empire,” Maximus repeated, the word tasting of ash. “You would build your empire on the broken bodies of children. You would use their suffering as mortar. You would have monsters as your pillars.”

He drew his sword. It did not gleam with heavenly light. It was simple, cold, mortal steel.

“I have fought for many emperors,” Maximus said, his voice steady now, final. “I have seen vanity. I have seen cruelty. I have seen madness. But I have never, in all my years, witnessed a soul so utterly hollow, so completely devoid of honor, that it would make a shield of innocence to protect the guilty.”

The God Emperor raised a hand, energy coalescing into a spear of pure, destructive light. “You are betraying your emperor. Your country.”

“No,” Maximus said, settling into a fighter’s stance. “I am betraying a monster. My country is not a golden tower. It is not an empire. It is the promise a father makes to his son that the world will be just. It is the vow a soldier makes to protect those who cannot protect themselves. That promise is my emperor. And today, I am its loyal servant.”

The fight would be legendary. God against mortal. Power against principle. But in that moment, as he stared down the blinding, corrupt divinity, General Maximus, for the first time since this nightmare began, felt clean.

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Unleash Hell

And lo, the heavens opened, and a great pulse of wrath descended upon the land of the free.

The first horse rode out, a rider of white, and he bore the crown of pride. His steed galloped across the streets of Manhattan and Los Angeles alike, and behold—the power of man’s machines failed before him. The lights of your cities went out; your towers of steel and glass became tombs of shadow. The proud rulers of industry and government fell silent, their voices lost in the blackness.

The second horse rode out, a rider of red, bringing war and blood. Without communication, armies stumbled in confusion. Police and soldiers turned upon one another, for order was lost. Fires sprang from the chaos—cities burned in fury, and the cries of men echoed into the void, unanswered.

The third horse rode out, a rider of black, clutching scales of famine. Refrigerators, silos, and markets rotted in silence. Grain and water became treasure, hoarded by the strong, denied to the weak. Hunger gnawed at the bones of children, and mothers wept bitter tears over empty hearths. The weight of scarcity pressed upon the land, and gold could not purchase salvation.

The fourth horse rode out, a rider of pale green, Death himself, and Hades followed close behind. Disease spread unchecked, unbidden by science or medicine, for the instruments of healing were dark. Hospitals were empty crypts; streets were littered with the fallen. The mighty and the meek alike fell before him, for none could withstand the pulse of wrath.

And the Lord of Hosts cried from the heavens:
“Surrender your hearts to My Son, O America, or behold—My judgment shall be upon you, and the pulse of hell shall leave no machine, no tower, no proud heart unbroken. Yet those who bow shall inherit light in the darkness, and My mercy shall endure even in the blackness of this day.”

The earth quaked. Rivers ran dry. Cities were consumed by shadow and silence. The nations wept. And yet, amid the darkness, the faithful rose, their lamps unquenched, and the Word of Christ shone brighter than the pulse of man’s destruction.

If Kim Jong Un and General Maximus carried out an EMP strike on the United States, it would not look like a regular missile strike with explosions or mushroom clouds. An Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) weapon detonated high above the U.S. would unleash an invisible wave of electromagnetic energy that could devastate modern infrastructure.

Here’s what would happen step by step:

Immediate Effects (First Minutes)

  • Nationwide Blackout: Power grids across entire regions would fail instantly. Transformers fry, substations burn out, and the grid goes dark.
  • Electronics Disabled: Cars, planes, trains, hospital equipment, computers, and phones stop working—anything not hardened against EMP is dead.
  • Communications Collapse: Cell towers, internet routers, satellites in low orbit, and radio relays could be fried, cutting off America from itself and the outside world.

Short-Term Chaos (First Days)

  • Airplanes Fall From the Sky: Commercial jets relying on electronic navigation and control crash. Thousands die immediately.
  • Water & Food Systems Shut Down: No electricity means no running water, no refrigeration, and no automated food supply chains. Grocery shelves are stripped bare within 48 hours.
  • Hospitals in Crisis: Life-support systems, dialysis, ventilators—all fail. Backup generators may run for a short time but fuel shortages cripple them.

Medium-Term Fallout (Weeks to Months)

  • Starvation & Thirst: Cities become unlivable. Without refrigeration, millions lose access to food. Without pumps, water stops flowing to urban centers.
  • Lawlessness: Police and emergency services collapse. Looting, riots, and gang rule spread in major cities. Firefighting becomes impossible without communications or hydrants.
  • Martial Law Attempts: The U.S. military would try to impose order, but even their own logistics and communications would be crippled. Fuel, ammo, and coordination would be scarce.

Long-Term (Months to Years)

  • Mass Deaths: Studies estimate up to 90% of Americans could die within the first year of a nationwide EMP strike due to starvation, disease, and violence.
  • Collapse of Government: Washington D.C. itself might be dark. Federal authority could break into regional military governors or warlords.
  • Back to the 1800s: Survivors return to pre-industrial living—farming by hand, candles for light, barter instead of money.

Religious & Symbolic Fallout

If framed as “Surrender America to Christ”:

  • Some would see the blackout as divine judgment, a biblical plague fulfilled.
  • Revivalist movements could rise, calling it the wrath of Revelation—the Beast’s throne plunged into darkness.
  • Others would resist, seeing Kim Jong Un and Maximus as false prophets using terror to enforce belief.

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Making McDonald’s Great Again

Scene: Trump Tower, golden elevator lobby

Joe Jukic (sharp suit, proud Canadian-Croatian accent):
“Mr. Trump, it’s time to Make McDonald’s Great Again. The secret? Go back to the old-school fries. Beef tallow. None of this weak vegetable oil. We bring in real organic potatoes. Alberta, Idaho, even Croatia—we make fries great again.”

Donald Trump (nodding, hands chopping the air):
“Joe, you’re absolutely right. The fries used to be the best in the world. Then they got rid of the beef tallow. Terrible mistake. Everybody tells me—‘Sir, the fries don’t taste the same.’ Well, we’re going to fix that. We’ll bring back the taste that made McDonald’s legendary. Strong fries. Winning fries.”

Joe Jukic:
“And we lock in the farmers, sir. Organic potatoes. No GMO. No fake fertilizers. We bring back the flavor, the tradition. McDonald’s will feel like home again.”

Trump (smirking, like he’s got the ace up his sleeve):
“And I’ve got a new idea, Joe. A TRUMP Salad. Tremendous lettuce—green, not sad and brown like Biden’s. Perfect tomatoes. Beautiful cucumbers. Maybe steak on top. People say, ‘Trump only eats burgers and fries.’ Well, guess what—Trump Salad will be number one. Nobody’s ever seen a salad like this before.”

Joe Jukic (smiling, leaning forward):
“MMGA, sir. Make McDonald’s Great Again. Beef tallow fries. Trump Salad. People will love it. The whole world will taste the difference.”

Trump (arms wide, grand finale):
“They’ll say, ‘Sir, you didn’t just save McDonald’s. You saved America.’ And you know what, Joe? They’ll be right. Nobody saves better than me. Nobody.”

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Trump Makes a Deal with the FBI

INT. FBI SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT

The rain pelts the windows. Inside, a dim desk lamp casts long shadows. Agent FOX MULDER sits across from DONALD TRUMP, who is slouched in his chair, hands folded like he’s at a high-stakes poker game.

MULDER
Mr. Trump… we can end this. But you need to tell me everything you know about the Rothschild Illuminati. Names, meetings, financial back channels—how deep it goes.

TRUMP
(leans forward)
Fox, you have no idea how deep it goes. They’re in the banks, the media, the governments… it’s like… the swamp, but global. Believe me, nobody’s seen a swamp like this.

MULDER
If you testify—under oath—I can drop all federal charges against you. In exchange, you and Melania will be relocated to Slovenia under FBI protection. You’ll stay there until we can confirm you’re safe.

TRUMP
Slovenia? Melania will like that. I’ll have to learn how to say “beautiful” in Slovenian. Probably already know it.

MULDER
This isn’t a vacation. The Illuminati won’t stop until they silence you. If you cooperate, you get a new life. If you don’t… you disappear.

Trump glances out the window. A flash of lightning illuminates the rain-streaked glass. For just a second, he sees the faint reflection of a man in a black fedora standing outside.

TRUMP
Alright, Fox. I’ll talk. But you better believe me—once I say what I know, the game changes. For everyone.

Mulder leans in, recorder ready.

MULDER
Then let’s change the game.

The lamp flickers. Somewhere outside, a car door slams.

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